Three Against the Stars (9 page)

Fairbanks started to sweat from more than just the heat of the planet.

Captain Kriff followed the warriors. His jackboots made a heavy sound as he descended the ramp. Fairbanks nearly gagged when he saw the necklace of human teeth and Omegan beaks.

“Welcome to Acheron and the Fontaine Mining Colony,” he said, smiling nervously. “I’m Bob Fairbanks, the mine supervisor. Not that it matters . . . but I was under the impression that you and your crew would be Lavarians.”

“Looks like you were wrong,” Kriff said in English.

“My apologies, sir. I meant no offense.”

The Rhajni drew blasters and zapguns from inside their coats—

“Dear God!” cried Fairbanks.

—and opened fire on the Acheron personnel.

Fairbanks, the technicians, the mechanics, and the miners screamed in agony as a flurry of blue zapper bolts and violet tracers from blasters burned and cut them to pieces.

Four Rhajni tigermen, armed with tazer rifles and wearing black and silver body armor, then marched down the ramp of one of the shuttles.

Vash, Tikrow and Mister Snark followed the warriors.

Jealous of the Warclaw’s rank and friendship with his brother, Kriff eyed his fellow officer with contempt. He saluted Vash. “I await your command, Lord Vash.”

“You may carry out your orders, brother,” said Vash.

444

Once inside the armory, Cortez had quietly shut the doors and flipped a switch. The interior was instantly flooded by banks of solar-powered, overhead lights.

Cortez now stood behind Makki and watched him practice on a laser cannon simulator, blasting Tri-D images of starships and warriors from various planets.

He slapped Makki on the back. “Good work, my friend. Perfect score.”

“This one practice on old computer game when no one around,” Makki told him.

…this bad hombre has not changed…in…three hundred years.

“Well, it certainly paid off, did it not?”

They approached a table laid out with the classic .45 automatic, an M-16 laser rifle, a Primo-2000, and an Eddy machine gun. Cortez picked up the automatic and checked the safety.

“Now, this bad
hombre
has not changed much in over three hundred years,” he said. “The Corps is very big on tradition, you know.”

Makki cocked his head and stared at the weapon. “This gun is very much too small.”

Setting the .45 back on the table, Cortez picked up the Eddy machine gun. “This beauty is based on the Tommy gun made famous by gangsters during the world wars of the nineteenth century. But we now call it the Eddy. It was named for some
gringo
inventor named Edison.”

“How does it work?”

Cortez grinned, warming to his subject. Makki always enjoyed the sergeant’s lectures.

“The Eddy fires three hundred electrified quartz rounds with consum-able cartridge casings from a single clip,” the Spaniard explained. “If the enemy is wearing body armor, you can still fry the dirty sons of adultery. Do you wish to go outside and waste a few rounds?”

“No. This weapon much too noisy, like big mouth Sergeant O’Hara.”

With a nod and a grin, Cortez nudged Makki in the ribs. He replaced the Eddy machine gun on the table, picked up the Primo-2000 and cradled it in his arms as if it were a baby.

“Now this little beauty fires twenty rounds of incendiary explosives,” he said. “A single warrior can load and fire with one hand. Here. Try it on for size.”

Cortez tossed the Primo to Makki, who caught it with both hands but nearly collapsed under the weight of the weapon.

“Very much too heavy for this mewling,” he said.

Taking the Primo from Makki, Cortez put it back on the table and picked up the M-16.

“This is my personal favorite, the Sweet Sixteen laser rifle,” he said. “It is light and very effective. But best of all, it is relatively quiet. Come. Let us go zap a few tin cans.”

Makki grinned, grabbed the laser rifle from Cortez, and followed the sergeant through the armory. They walked down a dark corridor and entered a sound-proof practice chamber. Cortez flipped another switch, and another overhead bank of lights blazed into life.

At the far end of the room, like an old-fashioned carnival shooting gallery, steel targets designed to resemble Drakonian warriors and other unfriendly NTLs—Non-Terrestrial Lifeforms—stood lined up against a wall, moving back and forth, and up and down. Most had numerous holes burned into them.

“Go ahead, my friend—fire away,” Cortez said. “No one will hear us.”

Makki grinned, raised the M-16 to his shoulder, sighted in on his targets and snapped off three rounds from the laser rifle. A barely audible hum issued from the weapon as three red laser beams burned holes in the remaining targets.

“Bravo!” Cortez shouted. “Bravo!”

“This one very much thanks you.”

“So what would you like to shoot at now, Makki?” Akira asked.

Cortez and Makki spun around and saw her leaning against the door, grinning at them and chewing an unlit cigar

Makki didn’t smile back. Instead, his cat-eyes darkened and narrowed. His face twisted into a scowl. “The sons of adultery what almost destroyed Rhajnara.”

444

The two suns in the sky above Acheron were blazing like a pair of atomic beacons. The wind was a gentle breeze, hot and dry, and kicking up dust and grit. Except for the cries of the wounded and dying, and the screams of women and children, the mining colony was nearly as silent as the vast reaches of outer space.

Vash, Tikrow, Snark and the four tigermen watched the Khandra raiders herd the surviving mine personnel and their families into the center of the main street. One tigerman clubbed Surat, the Omegan birdman, with the butt of a tazer rifle. Human and nonhuman men, women and children wept and begged for mercy.

An old Rhajni woman suddenly broke from the other prisoners and ran boldly toward Vash. Her wrinkled face bore a faint resemblance to a Nubian cat. Tears of grief and anger filled her green and yellow eyes, matting the fur on her face.

“Over many long, hard years I prayed to the Maker and his Sibyl that I had seen the last of your kind,
Lord
Vash,” she said in Rhajni.

Snark hissed a laugh. “You should be flattered the old woman remembers you, Vash.” 

The Rhajni woman glared at him. “How could I forget the evil done to us by his kind?”

“I remember your husband, too,” Vash told her. “I can’t rid my nose of his stench.”

“You Khandra
murdered
my husband and
sent me to a concentration camp,” she said. “The Khandra shipped my only son to a labor camp—where he
died!
You did all this because we are Felisians. But I
survived!
I
lived!
And never will I return to Rhajnara as long as you and your kind still live and breathe the air of our blessed planet.”

“No, you will never see your home again,” Tikrow told her.

“Why have you come here?” she demanded.

“To settle an old score.” Vash snarled and showed his sharp teeth. “But before I leave this infernal planet I think I should tell you—your son still lives.”

“My son?
Alive?
”

“A pity you’ll never see him again.”

The old Rhajni woman screamed and wept and cursed him. Two cougarmen hauled her back across the hot sand, where they forced her to kneel with the other prisoners in the street.

Kriff dragged an elderly Rhajni male with the face of an old lion toward Vash.

“I found him hiding under his bed,” Kriff said.

Vash snarled at the prisoner. “Did you think you could hide from us forever, Balik Jhaza? Or perhaps I should call you by the name you assumed when you escaped justice?”

“How did you know? How did you find out?” Jhaza asked.

“We have our methods, though it took long enough,” Tikrow replied.

“But I had no other choice! Both of you know that.”

“I know that you could have chosen death, you coward,” Vash said.

Jhaza dropped to his knees and began to weep. “I wanted only to protect my family.”

Tikrow grinned. “Your wife and children have already paid the price for your treason.”

“No! No!” Jhaza cried, burying his face in his paws.

“Put him with the others, Kriff,” said Vash.

“As you command, my lord,” Kriff obeyed. He signaled to his warriors.

Two tigermen seized Jhaza and threw him in with the other prisoners.

Vash fingered the scar on his face. “Tikrow, once you finish up here I want you and your warriors to take one of the shuttles and rendezvous with us in the Cholo Sector.”

“Yes, my lord,” the Warclaw said.

“Mister Snark, you and I will take the second shuttle and return to the
Dark Star,
” Vash said. “We’ll take command of the
Volkana.
Then Captain Skreel can return to Drakona with the
Dark Star
and join the starmada that is gathering there.”

Snark’s forked tongue slithered from the jaws of his snout and caressed his upper lip.

Chapter Nine

The Lasernecks of

Camp Corregidor

T
antrapur was an Arabesque city of pyramids that scraped the sky, and graceful structures topped with domes and minarets. Balconies hung from the sides of residential and financial towers, while bridges and catwalks arched over the streets, sidewalks and waterways that connected many of the buildings. A system of canals wound through the city like water snakes out for a leisurely swim. Rhajni catizens strolled about the parks, going about their daily business. Many sat in lotus position or stretched out on the rooftop sun decks of cottage-like dwellings. Beyond the city limits sprawled the Rhajni Spaceport.

McLaglen’s Café was a modest, two-story building squatting at the end of a wide street. Sidewalk tables and a second floor terrace overlooked one of the winding canals. Small boats like Venetian gondolas cruised gently up and down the waterway. Humans and various NTLs wandered about the street, taking in the sights. A large tour bus floated by on jets of air, carrying visitors to the ruins, battlefields, and concentration camps that had been left standing as memorials to the millions of innocent Felisians who were exterminated by the Khandra Regime. 

Inside the café, a genteel clientele of humans and other extraterrestrial beings ate breakfast or lunch, while centuries-old classical music from Earth, mostly Bach, Brahms and Mozart, played softly in the background. A flight of stairs built against one wall led to the balcony that opened onto the terrace. A pair of fencing foils hung on the wall adjacent to the stairs, sharing space with portraits of ancient movie stars, legendary pirates, and mythical creatures from a dozen Earth cultures.

Eight proto-saurian warriors in blue uniforms—Drakonians from their Embassy in Tantrapur—occupied a large table in the center of the room, enjoying a quiet meal.

In one corner of the café, Akira, O’Hara and Cortez sat at a small table and stared glumly at three empty cups and a pot of tea looking back at them.

O’Hara glanced at the lizardmen. “Drakonians,” he grumbled. “They smell worse than the reptile house at Lincoln Park Zoo.”

“Quiet—they’ll hear you!” Akira hissed.

“By God and Saint Patrick, woman!” O’Hara complained. “Leave me alone unless you can tell me where a man might find a wee drop of drinkin’ whiskey on this bloody planet!”

Akira shot him a wink, held out her hand and showed him three green capsules lying in her palm. “You like Irish tea?”

“Solar Stuncaps!” Cortez said. “Each one is the equivalent of a pint of whiskey.”

O’Hara grinned at Akira. “Bless your heart, lass.”

“Where did you acquire them?” Cortez asked.

“Ah, so sorry. But I’ve learned never to reveal my sources,” Akira replied. She dropped the capsules into the pot of hot tea, shook it for a few moments, and then poured them each of them a cup. “See you boys in the stratosphere!”

O’Hara raised his cup. “To the Corps!”

Akira and Cortez joined in and gulped their tea. She shivered from the quick jolt of alcohol. He smoothed his mustache. O’Hara just sighed and wiped his mouth.

“Now that is one very good cup of tea,” saidCortez.

“Aye,” O’Hara agreed. “Black as the devil’s heart and strong enough to kick his arse.”

Cortez’s hand shook as he refilled their cups. “To the three
amigos
,” he said. “May we fight as long as we live, and live as long as we fight.”

“Semper fi!”
O’Hara shouted.

They sat back in their chairs as the buzz of a whiskey rush hit them again. But Akira fidgeted nervously, wondering when and how she was going to tell them her plans to get married. One thing she did know for certain: Now was not the right time and place.

While they chatted, and their voices grew louder and louder, the Dra-konians glared at them, shooting laser beams of anger and hatred from their cold, reptilian eyes.

444

The Felisians were a peaceful race of Rhajni whose culture was centered on commerce and agriculture. Like the Grimalkins, they also worshipped Azra, but they were of the Luzsaran religion. Their belief was that Azra had sent his Word and his Laws to Luzsara, the Holy Sybil— a Felisian female who had been burned for heresy by the Grimalkins over a thousand years ago. The Felisians held true to one of the tenets of the Sybil’s teachings—that no Rhajni of either breed should rule over the other: both were to share in the governing of their planet.

Makki and Sheel were Felisians of the Luzsaran faith.

Outside McLaglen’s Café, they drank tea and ate Rhajni pastry. They stared at the passersby: civilians, soldiers, dignitaries, and corporate honchos of every species from every planet in the known universe. As always, returning home to Tantrapur brought back memories of the horrors Makki had witnessed and survived during the war. He remembered hiding out in the ruins of the city after escaping a Khandra work camp, eating whatever he could scrounge up, never sleeping in the same place twice, and keeping both eyes open for enemy patrols.

“Ironically, everything you want is because of the war, you know,” she said in Rhajni.

Makki nodded slowly and replied in their native language. “You were very fortunate, Sheel. You didn’t lose your family and home and everything you owned.”

“Azra had other plans for us, my love.”

“When the Marines first came to Rhajnara to lend us aid and help us fight the Khandra, they gave this poor mewling food and shelter and medicine.”

“So that’s why you wish to become . . . how do you call it? One tough laserneck?”

“The Marines saved this one’s life.”

“But a doctor devotes his life to
saving
lives, dear one,” Sheel said. “You would make an excellent physician, Makki. But the choice is yours. Luzsara will light the way.”

444

Back inside McLaglen’s Café, Cortez sprawled in his chair. O’Hara spilled the spiked tea as he attempted to refill their cups. But Akira’s hands were steady as she lit a cigar.

“That stogie smells like the hind end of a Denebian swamp dog,” O’Hara complained.

“Probably tastes like it, too,” Cortez mumbled.

“A lot you—boys know,” Akira said, belching after she hiccupped. “These cigars were imported across five galaxies—all the way from Cuba.”

“Ain’t Cuba one of the moons of Mongo?” O’Hara asked.

Akira blew smoke rings at him. “I don’t know—I was born on Venus.”

“Madre de Dios!”
Cortez said. “O’Hara, you do not really know where Cuba is?”

“Why? Were you born there?” O’Hara asked.

Cortez tried to sit up straight. “I was born in Spain. But I am a proud citizen of Mars!”

“Mars?” O’Hara burst out laughing. “By God—what a black hole!”

“O’Hara, you are not only one stupid
hombre
, you have the face of a
burro.
”

Jumping to his feet in a boxer’s stance, O’Hara knocked over his chair, as well as their table. Akira leapt to her feet as the pot and cups crashed to the floor, spilling tea and broken glass all over. Cortez started to stand, but he and his chair fell backward.

Akira rolled her eyes.
Good Lord—not again?

“That’s it, Cortez, ya dirty bugger,” O’Hara said. “Stand up like a man so’s I can knock you down like a dog.”

The café fell silent. Customers stared. The Drakonians hissed.

Akira hauled Cortez to his feet and gave him a stern look. He glared at O’Hara, who grinned back at him. “Okay, boys,” she said. “Cool your jets!”

The eight Drakonians slowly rose from their table and walked up behind them. The largest of them, sporting three short horns on his long snout, shook his head in disgust.

“Filthy Earthers,” he said in English. “You have the manners of one of your pigs. Someone should teach you Marines how to behave in public.”

O’Hara, Akira and Cortez turned slowly to face the Drakonians.

“Is that so, ya bloody reptile?” O’Hara asked, scowling at the lizardman. “And I suppose you’re just the toad-face what can do it, too?”

The other Drakonians surrounded the three Marines.

444

Makki and Sheel had just finished their pastries when a Rhajni beggar with the ancient face of a Persian cat limped over to their table. He wore a long, faded red robe that was patched in a dozen places. Scars crisscrossed his whiskered face, he smelled like wet fur, and his paws shook with ague. Another Felisian victim of the Khandra atrocities, Makki guessed.

“Alms for the temple?” the beggar asked in their native language.

Makki and Sheel were quick to give him some universal scrip. The beggar raised a trembling paw and two declawed fingers in blessing.

“May the Eye of the Maker look upon you with favor, my daughter,” he said to Sheel. Then he turned to Makki and gave him a thoughtful look. “The Sibyl has marked you for greatness, young warrior. Her light will guide your steps toward the path of glory.”

The beggar touched their brows gently with his paw, and then bowed his head. He smiled before turning away, departing as quietly as he had arrived.

“He’s a Luzsaran mendicant who lives a life of poverty in the service of the Maker,” Sheel told Makki, her tangerine eyes following the beggar as he limped down the street.

Makki nodded absent-mindedly, his thoughts centered on what the holy beggar had said to him. It made the fur on the back of his neck bristle, as if he had been touched by static electricity. The mendicant’s words had added more kindling to the fire inside his heart.

“He called this one a warrior,” he said in a soft voice filled with awe.

Corporal Flix marched up to them a moment later, and looked down his nose at them. “Colonel Dakota has sent me to find Sergeants O’Hara, Akira and Cortez. Have either of you seen them?” he asked in Rhajni.

At the sound of snapping wood and breaking glass, Makki and Sheel glanced at the terrace overlooking the sidewalk café and the canal below it.

Two Drakonian warriors—one of them with three horns—crashed through the terrace doors, tumbled over the railing and dropped into the canal with a loud splash.

Makki winked at Sheel. “They seem to be occupied at the moment,” he told Flix.

444

The interior of McLaglen’s Café was in an uproar. Men were shouting. Women were screaming. Human and non-human customers scrambled for safety as O’Hara, Akira and Cortez brawled with the six remaining Drakonians.

Cortez danced across the top of the bar, throwing cups and saucers at four of the Drakonian star troopers. Then he leapt from the counter, over their heads, and landed on his feet like a cat. He raced for the stairs leading to the balcony.

A Drakonian with hairy wattles charged after him. “Just like a Marine to run away!”

Racing up the stairs, Cortez stopped, turned, and grabbed one of the swords hanging on the wall. The Drakonian grabbed the other

Cortez grinned. “On guard, you ugly
cocodrilo!
”

The Drakonian lashed out at Cortez. Their swords clashed with a grating sound. Slash and lunge and parry—Cortez laughed like a pirate in an ancient 2-D film as his sword wove a glittering web of steel.

On the balcony, O’Hara exchanged blows with another Drakonian. The big Irishman ducked a roundhouse punch and then dropped the lizardman with a sharp uppercut to the snout. The Drak tumbled over the balcony rail and landed with a loud crash on an unoccupied table. Dusting off his hands, O’Hara pulled up a chair and sat down. He folded his arms and watched Akira shift into action against another Drakonian.

The brute was twice Akira’s size, but she kicked butt, using a combination of street fighting and martial arts tactics. She nailed the Drak with two swift blows to his gecko-like face, and then spun around and dropped him with a kick to the groin. Satisfied with her handiwork, she relit her cigar and pulled up a chair next to O’Hara.

“So where
were
you born, O’Hara?” she asked.

“On Earth,” he said. “In Ireland. In good old County Cork, to be exact.”

“Then you knew all along?”

O’Hara laughed. “About Cuba? Aye, lass. But Zorro down there doesn’t know it.”

They turned and leaned against the balcony, watching the fight below.

Cortez disarmed the hairy-wattled Drakonian as the other three rushed the stairs. He hurled his sword at the wooden ceiling, where it stuck, and then he leapt from the top of the stairs. He landed on the lizardmen and they all tumbled down the flight of steps together.

That’s when Corporal Flix rushed into the café, followed by a squad of MPs swinging their batons and eager to bust some skulls.